by Angel Payne
“Then just wait for him to kill us?”
“He won’t let any of you be killed.” His jaw turned the texture of his hard gold stare. “To be blunt, you’re his leverage.”
“So he’ll just let us be raped.”
“I won’t let that happen.” He kissed her fiercely. “I promise. But I can hide my feelings easier if they’re tucked behind my guard dog face. I’ll be shit for concentrating on searching for Mom and maintaining my cover with Stock if I haven’t ensured your safety.”
“But how can you promise yours?”
He brushed both thumbs across her cheek—through the tears that had rolled out with her rasp. “I can’t.” His own voice cracked again. “But I’m going to try, okay?”
As he swept his mouth lower, taking her in what she knew would be their final kiss, Zoe’s throat constricted like he’d tossed boulders down it along with his kiss but she prevented her needy, stupid follow-up from spewing out.
I just found you. I can’t just…lose you. Dammit, I have to keep you alive! Somehow. But how? How?
His lungs toiled on breaths as he pushed to his feet again. He stood next to the bed like that for a long moment, keeping their fingers twined until he slanted over her, pressing his lips to her forehead and echoing a command he’d given her hours ago…a lifetime ago. This time, the charge came with a distinct variance.
“Stay.” He yanked her face against his chest, clasping her against his stone-hard exterior—and the impassioned heartbeat that filled his interior. “Please.”
* * * * *
Stay.
Twenty minutes later, she still fumed about his damn decree. She wouldn’t have let any man get away with such an edict even once, yet she lay here obeying the damn thing for the second time.
She had a valid excuse for the first slip, when he’d issued it to her on the plane. Terror had a great way of stealing a person’s brain.
A heavy sigh rushed out. She had an equally good excuse for her second lapse. No, a better one.
Shay’s fear.
She’d seen it in every shard of his gaze, heard it in all the pounds of his heart when he’d held her close one last time. In every beat of that moment, he confirmed what she’d already sensed, that he recognized the rarity of their bond as profoundly as she did. That in just hours, they’d already built a world together. A place she’d only dreamed she’d ever find. Hermoso fuego. The beautiful fire of their power exchange.
It was a world worth fighting for. Yet here she lay, still tethered to the damn IV tube, all but whining like a puppy in worry for her master.
She needed to be helping him. Supporting him. Fighting for him, for them, in any way she could.
Having selective brain again, hmmm, Zo? Have you conveniently forgotten that the man is trained to fight and you’re not?
She snorted. “Ay. I’m not going to just pick up an M14 and go to town. But he needs help, and—”
Help? Really? You going to yell at him to duck bullets and hand him a cold towel for comfort?
How the hell had her own conscience turned into her worst enemy? “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
And you’re supposed to be heeding your Sir.
“He’s not my Sir.” Hearing her vivious bite on the air imparted new confidence. “He’s my damn captor, is what he is, and he’s still keeping me hostage!”
He’s keeping you safe.
“He needs—”
For you to be alive at the end of all this. But you can’t handle not helping. You can’t let it go, can you?
“I’m sitting here, okay? Being good, keeping my place…waiting to be hauled off to the holding pen.”
You have to let it go, Zoe.
You have to let it go.
She winced as her head repeated the phrase. The words were worse than “tech run-through,” “pap smear,” and “sold out of Ding Dongs” combined. With hard breaths, she fought them back again, shoving them back from the tunnel of memory, knowing—and dreading—what they’d morph into if they achieved that goal.
Too late. The echo chamber of the past grabbed the words and ran. At first, the phrase reprised in her own voice, but all too fast, she heard it in Aunt Lena’s voice, instead. The woman’s usual strict accent marked each syllable, amplified by the stark white walls of the King of Peace Mortuary.
Zoe. You have to let go now. Your mamá is with the angels. Let her go now, child. They have to take her away.
She squeezed her eyes. Forced down a breath. Fought to thrust the memory away. Though she managed to clear her mind, the grief clung to her heart, reduced to its eleven year-old tenderness.
And desperation.
And damn, disgusting helplessness.
She should have done something. There had to have been something. She should’ve known Mamá’s cough wasn’t a normal thing that grownups got on airplanes. She should’ve made her go to the doctor sooner. Hell, she should’ve begged her not to go to Greece in the first place. Why did Mamá always have to go see Giagia, and not the other way around?
“You should have known,” she whispered. “You should have done something.”
Something other than letting go.
She jabbed the tears off her cheeks as the door opened with a whoosh. Justine beamed a creepy doll smile while bustling over, a roll of gauze in her hand. Just glancing at the spool made Zoe feel like more of it was crammed down her throat, especially as the memory of Shay’s special use for the stuff blared across her mind. She managed—barely—to choke the anguish back as the nurse approached.
“Well, well, well,” Justine chirped. “Aren’t we looking muuuuch better? You actually have a little color in your cheeks.”
Zoe attempted to lift her lips. She couldn’t discern whether Justine was friend or foe, and the woman’s Bride of Chucky stare didn’t help in figuring it out. “Sure,” she managed.
“Bet you’re more than ready for this bad boy to be pulled out.” The woman giggled as she turned off the IV drip, peeled off the tape off her arm then gently removed the catheter then covered the site with a square bandage. “Though we certainly can’t say the same thing about all the bad boys and their ‘pulling out’ habits today, right?”
It took a much more monumental effort to react “normally” to the woman this time. Whatever normal was around here. The smart ass in her brain gave a wry smirk. What did you expect? You’re in the real-life Twilight Zone, remember? There’s a good chance Stock simply found her here and decided to let her stay.
A frown creased Justine’s forehead. “Dammit,” she muttered. “I forgot your juice. We can’t have you getting released without juice now, can we? I’ll find a little something to help you freshen up, too.”
Zoe blushed furiously as the woman glanced over, clearly eyeing the bite marks at the base of her neck along with the top buttons on her jeans, pulled back on her legs but still unfastened. She colored more deeply with the memory of Shay stripping the pants off of her in the fire of his passion. “Th-thanks.”
As soon as the woman disappeared again, discomfort set right back in. Zoe grimaced and squirmed despite telling herself this was just her psyche being influenced by Justine’s weirdness. But everything about just sitting here felt wrong.
Make that wrong.
“Dammit.” Now that she could actually rise off the bed, she did. It felt a little better to work off some tension by pacing, but the movement also confirmed that she really did feel better. Damn near perfect, as a matter of fact.
Perfect enough to be helping Shay.
Let it—
“Screw yourself.”
She barked it at her conscience before turning the whole thing off. Later, she’d search it for the insane monkey now cavorting its neurons, but there was no time right now. Listening to her instinct over her conscience wasn’t a natural skill so she had to focus harder on that innermost voice—even if it was lifted to a bellow now.
Correction. A bunch of bellows. All phrased into questions.
Disturbing questions. Angles she wasn’t sure Shay himself had considered in the ardency of his quest.
So what if Stock had influenced his mom’s disappearance? That didn’t mean it had been involuntary. What if his mom was here because she’d chosen to be? What if Shay did find her—and she instantly turned him over to Stock?
And what if the man had his mother thrust on such a high pedestal, he never entertained a single one of those thoughts?
He needs me.
It didn’t just resound in her brain. It throbbed through her entire being, claiming her bones and blood, more deafening than a wall of speakers during the final act at a hard rock festival.
She kept pacing—and stopped only when Justine came back in. “Oh, lookie,” the nurse chimed. “You’re up. That’s a good sign.” She scrunched her shoulders up to her ears while extending a tray of filled cups. “Orange, apple, or cranberry? I brought all three flavors so you could pick. I also brought a fresh T-shirt for you. Thought you’d want to change, and we seem about the same size, girlfriend.”
Zoe gritted out a smile as her inner creepazoid alert went off. Justine giggled in return, clearly giddy as a bestie about to plop down on the bed, braid her hair, trade boy secrets, and maybe even make out. In her book, she and Zoe’s similar builds and hair color magically turned them into something close to sisters. Next, she’d probably be insisting on a blood oath so they could become—
Sisters.
Mierda.
Who would’ve known? The Demon Pazuzu was actually her ticket out of here.
Zoe smiled again, actually meaning it this time. “Ummm, which one do you like best?”
Justine smiled. “Apple, for sure.”
“Then apple it is.” She waited for Justine to come closer and set the juices on the bedside tray, astounded how the nurse didn’t hear the frantic thrum of her heartbeat. After forcing down a deep breath, she commented, “Vaya. Your smock is super cute.”
The nurse smiled like a girl who’d just been noticed by the captain of the football team. “Really? Errr—I mean, I know, right? Garfield’s the best, huh?”
“Cutest cat ever.” Despite her nerves, summoning her inner fourteen year-old wasn’t that tough. “Looks like it holds a lot in the pockets, too.”
“Oh, yeah. Totally necessary for the job, you know? I mean, if one of Dr. Smythe’s animal boys gets riled and starts rampaging, I have to have the tranq gun nearby.” She patted the pocket with the larger lump in it, answering at least five prayers for Zoe at the same time.
“Animal boys?” Once again, she didn’t have to fake her demeanor. Boys generally were animals at different points in their development, but she was fairly certain Justine’s context was different—and was a huge reason why Shay’s mom had been abducted to here.
Or chosen to come here.
Regrettably, Justine’s face clouded over. “I’ve—I’ve said too much.” Just as hurriedly, she laughed off her disclaimer. “It’s best that we carry on.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
Before she lost her nerve, she stepped forward—and slammed a kiss on Justine’s mouth. As she’d hoped, the woman froze, suspended in shock. It bought her the three seconds she needed to pull out the tranquilizer gun, hoping like hell the contraption worked similarly to other pistols. Luck was with her. A fast flip of the safety, a jerk on the trigger, and the dart discharged into the woman’s thigh. Justine stiffened again, eyes bulging wide—before she slumped into the bed right where Zoe had just lain.
“I’m sorry, amiga.” Zoe wasn’t sure her whisper had been heard. Justine was as slack as a tranq’ed-up antelope.
She took a deep breath, peeled off her top, then went to work on wrenching Justine out of her smock and hair scrunchie. Thankfully, it didn’t take very long. Panged by guilt, she took an extra minute to redress the woman in the T-shirt she’d brought, which really was a nice shade of pink despite the smirking Garfield on it along with the words Don’t start with me; you won’t win. Well, hell. With her hair loose and her face peaceful, the woman was actually pretty. If the goon who discovered Justine was horny enough, she might even get her own “soldier sack time” today. In the end, the woman might even thank her for this.
And pigs might fly.
And she’d walk outside into a dewy woodland, with birds wanting to fit her for a princess gown and little crystal slippers.
And Shay wouldn’t be itching to beat her ass to a pulp once he found out she’d pulled this stunt.
That would be just fine by her. She’d willingly, gratefully, accept any punishment the man saw fit to wield—as long as he was alive to do it.
Using the thought as a cheerleader, she straightened her new outfit, scooped up a clipboard and radio from Justine’s station, and turned her path toward the hall spilling out with the most noise.
* * * * *
Only fifteen minutes later, she felt like she’d lived through fifteen hours. Maybe fifteen years.
This subterfuge shit wasn’t as easy as Emma Peel made it look. Every step she took coincided with another terrified throb of her heart, certain somebody would call her out as an imposter, forcing Shay into a choice between two situations that were hell. He’d have to jump to her rescue and risk exposing his true identity, or watch her be “disciplined” by Stock for her stunt, likely by letting his horndog henchmen have some turns with her. She had no illusions that decking Stock on the airplane had sliced her “special favor” with him, a status not helped by tranquilizing her nurse then roaming freely through the facility’s hallways.
Maybe Shay had been right.
Maybe she really hadn’t known what the hell she was asking for.
Or the strangeness of the party she’d just invited herself to.
As she sucked up her fear and kept moving down the halls, the scene reminded her more and more of a hospital emergency room. Everything was controlled chaos, with Stock’s goons acting as armed directors of medical personnel in full scrubs and sterile gloves. Using the clipboard as a shield for her face, Zoe soon learned that if she stuck to the walls, kept her head down, and pretended to talk on her radio every few minutes, everybody assumed she was just another gear in the machine.
A machine that grew busier and busier as she moved along.
And stranger and stranger.
Despite her clipboard obsession, she managed to snag some long looks at the patients being rushed down the hallways, presumably to be loaded onto the now-empty jetliner. At first, she could only frown in confusion. All the men on the gurneys looked like they belonged in the next Magic Mike movie, not a super-secret medical facility in the middle of the desert. Some of the hulks were so huge, they threatened to spill off the tables. It was a sea of rippling biceps, ripped chests, massive thighs…and many sets of boxer briefs that were stretched to the limit.
But then she looked closer. Peered beyond the “scenery,” to the patients’ faces.
While the men’s bodies looked like strip club fantasies, their eyes were as haunted as D Street crack heads. Their features, while traditionally handsome, were just the skeletons that supported lines of disillusion, despair, loneliness…and pain. The kind of pain she’d often seen while growing up down the street from one of the country’s busiest military bases, on the faces of vets who’d returned fresh from Iraq, Kuwait, Liberia, Sierra Leone. The pain of endurance, but not obliteration. Of memories that were monsters.
Caramba. Who were they and what had happened to them here?
She forced herself to look for more clues.
A few seconds later, she barely quelled a gasp of horror. That was a good thing, since it subdued the bile in her throat, too.
A blonde hunk, beautiful enough to play Adonis in a movie, scraped the hair from his eyes with hawk talons in place of his fingers. The guy behind him was positioned stomach-down on his gurney, the thin sheet on his back covering a shark’s fin where his spine should be. Further in the parade, a guy opened his mouth on what looked like a moan, but
a soft lion’s roar came out, instead. His nose was flat and wide like a wildcat’s, too.
Zoe slammed against the wall, holding the clipboard across her face to shield her horror. “Ay Dios Mio.”
The Island of Dr. Moreau had been transplanted into the Nevada desert. Only Moreau was now Cameron Stock, and these poor men were his wretched mutant experiments.
Or were they?
Who the hell was really behind this? This building was situated on the US government’s version of hallowed ground, the most secret installation in the country. Books had been written, TV shows developed, even movies made on the speculation about the activities that occurred here, everything from top-secret spy plane tests to deep-freezing aliens. According to the feds, the very facility in which she stood didn’t even exist.
Still hiding behind the clipboard, she tried to connect puzzle pieces. The “chat” between Stock and General Newport, in which Stock had threatened going public with a computer stick. Then Justine’s earlier reference…Dr. Smythe’s animal boys…
What did it all mean? Who were all these beautiful, tortured men? Where had they come from? More crucially, where the hell was Stock taking them? How and why was the government involved?
The questions continued. And who was Dr. Smythe? Stock’s partner? His enemy? Did Shay’s mother know him? Work for him? Was he the reason she’d left so abruptly, eighteen years ago? Was he still here now?
As she wrestled with all the facets of the mystery, Zoe made sure to continue walking. An object in motion was harder to catch, especially when it was a hostage disguised as a nurse—
Unless that object noticed a distinct change in the hall’s air pressure.
She looked up to observe that she’d passed under a significant juncture in the hallway. The connection looked like the entrance to a Rockefeller bank vault. Both walls and the ceiling were reinforced by layers of steel. The double doors, also made of steel and at least eighteen inches thick, were held open by a dozen cement blocks each.